


The Spooky Truth with Dr. Jones

by Inaccessible Rail (strangetales)



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, archive warning: but there's cuddling afterwards, archive warning: contrived social media, archive warning: creepy phone calls, archive warning: for like a second, archive warning: i am obsessed with podcasts, archive warning: including exorcism, archive warning: it's all happening in post, archive warning: killian jones is bisexual, archive warning: many a nightmare, archive warning: minor character death, archive warning: not so spooky after all, archive warning: swears, archive warning: the slowest of burns, archive warning: various horror tropes, archive warning: x-files syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-11-14 01:33:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11197671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangetales/pseuds/Inaccessible%20Rail
Summary: Emma Swan is a podcaster looking for a semi-interesting story. Dr. Killian Jones is a paranormal investigator who doesn’t believe in the paranormal. Emma Swan absolutely does not want to write this story—but it seems to be writing itself. A CSBlack TapesAU.





	1. 001.

**Author's Note:**

> This delightful little AU was 100% inspired by _The Black Tapes_ , a seriously awesome fictional horror podcast that you can listen to for free. Which you should. Right now. I would also add that, while I know I am notoriously bad about taking forever to finish multi-chapter fics, the second chapter is almost done. It'll be posted soon!

Honestly, the worst thing about this job is the constant threat of, “You have a face too pretty for radio,” every time she has to conduct an interview with some bland fuck-boy that the country has suddenly decided is worth her time. If not for the occasionally tedious subject matter and overeager interviewees, it would be damn near perfect.

It’s certainly odd, considering how long she’d spent trying to make herself invisible; avoiding friends and relationships in exchange for the blissful quiet of self-imposed isolation, all while maintaining her carefully constructed state of emotional constipation.

“They’re not my friends,” trying to explain to her producer, David, “they’re my subjects.”

Snorting, with an affectionate rolling of his eyes, “That’s awfully sentimental of you, Emma.”

“Except you,” her words starting to run sloppily together, resting a warm, heavy arm around his neck, “you’re a regular ‘prince charming.’”

“Yeah, yeah,” brushing off the compliment but she can see it in his eyes, how much he cares, and while it still makes her vaguely uncomfortable, it’s nice knowing there’s somebody in her corner. “Let’s get you to bed, ‘princess.’”

* * *

 It was supposed to be a one-off episode, part of a larger story about people and professions and why we do what we do to get by—defining ourselves through our work, that kind of thing. She had done a few episodes already; one on geo-caching, another one focusing on a lady who actually got paid to paint the claws of people’s _cats_. And that was when David had gently knocked on her office door and told her about a conference about the paranormal going on at the local college, and would she, maybe, like to attend?

 She had been in the midst of sorting through a rather demoralizing gallery of neon-colored cat toenails when he’d made the suggestion, so it wasn’t hard to imagine the gusto with which she flew out of her chair; oversized bag of gum, phone chargers, and pencils swung over one shoulder, her knee-length boots half-zipped up her calves, “Yeah,” she answered excitedly, “I’m on it!”

* * *

 “Dr. Killian Jones is handsome,” she speaks into her dictaphone later that night, an unfamiliar vibrato of excitement painting her words, “there’s no point in denying it. I won’t have my young, impressionable female listeners hanging on his every lovely, accented word thinking this guy isn’t as good looking as he sounds.”

 She considers the, frankly, unreal color of his stupidly blue eyes and continues, “But I don’t want there to be any kind of confusion. Dr. Killian Jones is a real dick.”

* * *

  _The lecture hall is louder, busier, and fuller than she’s ever seen it before. She’s taken a few classes here, attended a few events, and she can say with absolute confidence that this campus has never seen such a to-do in all its many, stuffy years._

_The hall is a diverse mix, but there's an unusually large amount of tittering freshmen, and she can't help but feel as if she might be missing something._

_She puts that exact question to a rather excitable group of young women (and men), all of them clutching copies of the same book. It's large, hardcover, she can barely make out the thick, dramatic eyebrows of the author on the back._

_“So, uh, what's with the crowd?”_

_A young man wearing bold, square frames and a bowtie covered in tiny ghosts answers incredulously, “How can you not **know**?”_

_“Don't be rude, Jefferson,” interrupts a small, dark-haired brunette, her lipstick a bright, fire engine red. “Dr. Killian Jones,” she answers happily, handing Emma a copy of her book, “expert in all things fucked up and certifiably creepy.”_

_Emma skims the almost revelatory reviews on the back as the girl continues, “The accent and the eyes don't hurt either.”_

_“Not a damn bit,” the kid with the bowtie, Jefferson, mumbles under his breath._

_Emma releases a sigh. There's no point in being coy, she'd actually been **excited** about this. Turns out it's nothing more than an academic peep show._

_“You should stick around,” the girl comments carefully, her grin shrewd, “I don't think you'll regret it._

* * *

 “Here’s the thing about me,” she reflects carefully, a half-empty bottle of beer dangling from her fingertips, “I’m skeptical, but I don’t begrudge people _their_ beliefs.”

It probably has something to do with the absolutely devastating, trope-tastic childhood that she carries around with her like a brand. All those years yearning for some kind of “happily ever after,” when really it was just one bleak foster home after another, disappointment upon disappointment upon disappointment. But for a while? It was all that had kept her going.

“I would have given up otherwise,” a dry sniff, a cough that attempts to hide an unwelcome truth, “no matter how idealistic—stories… even the crazy ones, were everything.”

She pauses the recording, takes another swig of the warm beer in her hand, and pictures Killian Jones’ smug face, stiff blazer, and distinctly non-professorial jewelry. Recording.

“Asshole.”

* * *

  _“But what’s **wrong** with letting people believe what they believe…? If it brings them comfort?”_

_Emma’s sure this kid couldn’t look anymore nervous if she tried, the flushed cheeks and shaky hands an obvious betrayal of her adoration and fear of this guy. Sure, the deep, dulcet tones of his voice were what radio jockeys **dreamed** of, and yes, maybe the black stud in his ear managed to convey so authentic a quality that it had to be seen to be believed, but still—the all-knowing grin and perfect teeth were undoubtedly punch-worthy._

_“I would never want to deny someone their comfort,” he begins gently, a charming twinkle in his eye, “but there’s quite a bit more at stake, love—”_

_Impossibly, the girl blushes even deeper as he continues, “Your intentions, while quite admirable, they undermine the integrity of scientific fact, and in this day and age, well…”_

_He laughs and the entire room joins in, even the girl who had **asked** the question, and Emma can’t help but feel that if she were to pull her aside at the end of the night, she would have insisted that he had done her some kind of **favor**._

_Unsurprisingly, the rest of the night seems as if it will continue in much the same way. The guy has an answer to absolutely everything, and **nothing** has gotten under her skin more. He’s unshakeable in his rightness, in the certainty of his argument and his devotion to the truth with a capital “T.”_

_It would be almost admirable if it wasn’t so obviously a lie._

* * *

 She decides to conduct street interviews the next day, nothing too formal, just the usual method of stopping folks on the street, inquiring after their views about the supernatural; make sure they feel comfortable and get honest, usable content.

“And you don’t think this _tone_ of yours will influence their ‘honesty?’” David asks slyly, his smile familiar and deliberate and she’s had just about enough of how well he knows her sometimes.

“What _tone_? I just wanna prove to the guy that maybe he’s a little bit wrong about things.”

“No,” he laughs, shuffling around a pile of folders on top of his desk, “ _you_ want to humiliate him.”

“That would be unprofessional.”

“And no one would ever accuse you of that.”

She very professionally admits that she manages to speak with a handful of people who would agree with Dr. Killian Jones. They find belief in the supernatural, the magical, the _unbelievable_ , to be a failing of the human mind, not a strength. A few of them even mentioned him by name, “That doctor, you know,” and she had to physically stop herself from recoiling, “the one with the accent. He’s got the right idea.”

But there’s also the vast majority of people who harbor some kind of belief in the unknown, even if it’s the teeniest, vaguest inkling—they _want_ to believe, “And it warms the cockles of my cold, dead heart.”

* * *

  _It’s his answer to the last question that really seals the deal—acting as confirmation of the steadily growing theory that there’s a lot more to Jones’ “mission” than he’d like his enamored audiences to believe. It’s when the story that Emma Swan has started to write in her head goes from “so-so” to “award-winning.” It’s also when she gets the small blotch of ink on her face._

_She’s just about ready to throw in the towel, hasn’t been able to stop anxiously chewing on the cap of the pen she had shoved into her mouth to keep from groaning at all of his well-crafted answers, when a stern-faced, well-dressed woman stands to speak._

_Her voice seems to ring unusually loud in the suddenly hushed auditorium, and Emma’s eyes immediately swivel to the doctor’s face, which has, almost indiscernibly, shifted from charming to mildly concerned. Interesting._

_“Yes, I have a question, Dr. Jones.”_

_He adjusts slightly in his seat, straightening the lapel of his blazer and clearing his throat, “Of course, darling, have at it.”_

_“You seem to have **so many** answers, and you’re so knowledgeable about all of these incomprehensible matters, I just have to know—”_

* * *

 “At this point, I’m so freaking enraptured by this ladies’ pantsuit, it’s all I can do to keep my butt in the seat,” there’s now a few empties strewn about the floor as she paces excitedly back and forth, her finger manically tapping against the side of the recorder, “In fact, I was so interested in this question that I happened to get pen ink all over my face,” she pauses, “but that’s neither here nor there. Point is, this lady _stands up_ and says—”

* * *

  _“What happened to Milah Gold?”_

_A new, almost threatening kind of silence falls over the room. It **had** been “hushed” when Miss Pantsuit had stood up initially, but truthfully, there was still a smattering of noise you might usually attribute to normal human movement; the rustling of a candy wrapper, a small cough or shared whisper between friends, but the silence in the wake of this particular question, is, well, it’s almost **spooky** , isn’t it?_

_It’s like a vacuum has sucked all the air from the room, especially when you consider the fact that Jones’ face is so red it’s almost purple. His lips tighten and move together as if he’s about speak… and that’s when the goddamn lights go out._

* * *

 “No shit?” David asks, distracted over the phone, his voice tinny and distant. She can hear Mary Margaret and the baby in the distance, the sound of a live studio audience clapping in time with his wife’s sickeningly sweet singing voice.

Emma’s own voice is high and fast as she walks quickly back to her car, a near-frigid October breeze whipping her hair into a frenzy against flushed cheeks, her boots still charmingly unzipped around her legs. “David, it was fucking wild. The lights _went out_.”

“So you said,” he laughs and says something to the baby in a squeaky, high-pitched voice she can’t help but roll her eyes at, “So, uh, you think there’s a story here?”

“Fucking hell, David, _yes_ , yes, I think there’s a story here.”

“Well, you know I trust you,” Emma holds her breath as she stares at the strange, excited expression on the face of the woman reflected in the semi-frosted glass of her car window, “Go for it.”

It takes her a moment to realize that in the time spent walking from the lecture hall to her car, she’s somehow depleted all of her oxygen, and she has to quickly inhale before responding. Not to mention the fact of that damnable spot of ink still barely noticeable on the high apple of her _stupid cheeks_ and she knows David’s waiting for an answer but it’s the freaking principle of the thing. She’s already about to lose a few cool points, with her back now resting heavily against the door of the VW, summoning the courage to be emotive for once in her pathetic life.

“Thank you, David. Seriously, I mean it.”

“No need to thank me,” he answers gently, “Emma Swan always gets her man.”

* * *

  _It will pain her to admit it, but there’s little room to exaggerate when she later tries to describe the undeniable smoothness of Dr. Killian Jones after the absurdly dramatic disruption of his, so far, grossly successful night of win, after win, after win. There’s some light shrieking and girlish giggling in the darkness of the auditorium, and Emma’s almost positive there’s a hand lost up a skirt somewhere, but as soon as the lights come up a few minutes later, it’s as if the whole thing never happened._

_Pantsuit hasn’t plopped her proper butt back into her seat, but there’s a grin on Jones’ face that almost makes her believe he had planned the whole thing to catch **her** out. He makes some crack about the auditorium being haunted, “But don’t quote me on that,” winks, and turns those insane eyes back on the witch (Because she’s gotta be, right?) in the third row._

_“The matter of Milah Gold’s disappearance is still up for a debate,” he answers firmly, succinctly, “and in all fairness I’m not quite certain why you would bring it up here.”_

_The witch in business attire takes a seat after **that** perfunctory response, and then, finally, after an almost masturbatory few hours in which Dr. Killian Jones manages to elevate himself to a pedestal so high she’s certain his body would explode on impact were he to do the whole world a favor and fling himself off, Emma Swan remains carefully still in her seat, waiting for the adoring fans to file out. Her recorder waits impatiently in the pocket of David’s denim jacket, at least three sizes too big, and she’s secretly yearning for the red leather number lost under her bed somewhere._

_The pencil she’d tugged out of the rat’s nest on top of her head is tapping restlessly against her knee and goddamn, does she just want to get this guy alone. And she’s preparing herself because she just **knows** at this point, that when she gets within a hair’s breadth of his stupid face, he’s going to smell amazing—like warm, decadent cologne and expensive coffee. And she’s going to stare at his lips and her knees will undoubtedly quiver at the way he says… **words**._

_“Come on, Emma,” she whispers furiously, wiping the unattractive, crusty remnants of old, useless sleep gathering at the corners of her eyes, “let’s give this guy something he’ll **actually** be afraid of.”_

* * *

 Whichever marketing firm designed August Booth’s website is a freaking genius.

“Well,” he laughs, blushing slightly, “thank you, Miss Swan.”

She meets him at his office in a town called Storybrooke, about an hour south of Portland, and calling it quaint would be an understatement. The people in this town would appear to be so close they’ve got a running schedule for everyone else’s daily fiber intake, and she wants to leave almost as soon as she arrives.

“So, it’s gotta be the pie or something, right?”

The guy’s charming, she’ll give him that, if not a bit… empty. Which is vague, she knows, and she’ll have to revise the language at a later date, but when she considers his laughter in her room later that night it’s the first word that’ll come to mind. Empty ideas, empty gestures, just… he’s there, but no one’s really home. Dr. Jones is a dramatic, performative jackass, there’s absolutely no doubt—but what’s not up for debate is his _passion_. The man obviously cares. Now, exactly what he cares about and why? That’s up for discussion.

“I don’t think I know what you mean,” smiling, but again, it’s all a bit off.

“Small towns like this,” she explains, “a lot of the time the reason people give for sticking around. It’s a signature dish or an old, anthropomorphic tree or something.”

“Ah,” he answers, turning around to face a large, imposing bookcase, “it does have... _something_.”

When she says “large,” she means floor to freaking ceiling. Emma’s got bookcases that David has called “large,” and she snaps a picture on her phone because this? This is large. Not only does it extend from the persian rug-covered floor to the water-stained ceiling, the thing is the width of the entire wall, one end to the other. Every shelf, every inch of available space is occupied, either with books, VHS cases, manuscripts, or various occult objects you couldn’t pay her to actually touch (she’s not so much with the tempting of fate).

“Jesus, does it spin around, too?”

She might pretend he doesn’t flinch at the Jesus-bomb, but regardless, he smiles again, of course, and makes some kind of _Scooby-Doo_ reference she chooses to ignore.

* * *

  _He’s kinder up close and she wants to die. Basically. The anger is harder to use when she can see how fucking **sweet** he’s being to the gaggle of students hanging around, how he’s actually listening to their questions and comments instead of continuing the performance she had watched him perfectly execute on stage._

_“I understand where you’re coming from, truly,” his hand pressed firmly, earnestly against his own chest, “but I’ve seen the damage it can do, and I have to take my **own** comfort in what I can actually see.”_

_He offers yet another winning, gentle grin, signs a few more books, confirms or denies a few more rumors, and she watches, entranced, as he collapses into his seat with a sigh. She almost feels bad for the guy. Almost._

_“I know you’re there,” he starts kindly, his arm flung tiredly over his eyes, “no worries, love, I won’t bite.”_

_“What’s with the pet names?” she asks sweetly, dropping heavily into the seat across from him, “Does the tenure let you get away with that?”_

_He seems to lose his balance even though he’s seated, surprised at the vaguely mean, pointed quality of an older voice, “You’re not a student.”_

_“And you are very smart,” she responds kindly, her own smile adopting the least genuine feeling of kindness she can hope to convey, dragging her press pass out from beneath her flannel, “Emma Swan, ACRS.”_

_“Radio?”_

_The inviting, gentle nature she had witnessed earlier seems to have evaporated and there’s a part of her, a small, small part, that kind of hates what she’s about to do. As if it would kill her to make another friend._

_“It’s a podcast.”_

_“I’m sorry, a what?”_

_“It’s radio. Look, don’t you think it’s just a little bit strange that—”_

_“Let me stop you right there, Miss Swan—”_

_Thus beginning the era of “interview interruptus,” as she would so gleefully begin later, trying and failing to conceal her pride at using a term she had coined a few months earlier. There was lots of fake politeness and huffs of frustrated breath and eye-rolling and honestly she barely got to ask a question let alone receive any answers, and he must have been getting just as irate as she was because the guy actually had the nerve to—_

_“What the hell are you doing?”_

_Realizing that she was standing **dangerously** close to this man, stepping out of his wickedly tempting sphere of handsome, academic influence (and she was right about the expensive coffee thing)._

_“You had some ink on your cheek,” he answered quietly, as if he were surprised at his own movement, his hand slowly returning to his side. “My apologies.”_

_“It’s fine,” she said sharply, swiping her hand over her face, “don’t worry about it.”_

_“Miss Swan,” he paused, “Emma.”_

_His brief silence was heavy, and while in reality it was probably only a few seconds, it felt as if hours of contemplation went by. It seemed like he was devoting so much energy, so much careful attention to his next words to her, and honestly, it was kind of refreshing._

_“I understand you’re skeptical, alright? I’ve been known to doubt on occasion as well.”_

_She rolls her eyes and he smiles, his pronounced cheeks adorably flushed, “But I’m bloody exhausted, I could use some rest. Here’s my card.”_

_It’s just a normal business card, which is pretty disappointing. Could’ve at least used some holo-graphics or something._

_“E-mail me, give me a call. We can talk then.”_

_Emma Swan is well-versed in the complex, many-layered looks of suspicion and distaste. She’s not quite sure which one she’s decided to unleash on the good doctor here, but from the look on his face it’s not too far off from the one she’d given Neal when he had tried to “bury the hatchet,” as it were. His face softens and he releases a quiet breath, a new, patient smile on his face._

_“Try something new, darling. It’s called trust.”_

_And that’s when she runs for her car._

* * *

 You can tell that August Booth _wants_ to be able to pull off that genuine, trustworthy thing that Dr. Jones is able to convey so well, which is what makes it that much more distasteful to observe.

“I didn’t even think they _made_ VHS tapes anymore.”

August glances back at her over his shoulder with a mischievous look on his face, or at the very least, trying to be. It’s a little bit like a teenager who thinks they’ve managed to pull one over on the teacher, when really they’re about to be sent to summer school.

“They do, actually,” he starts, pulling a black tape off the shelf, “something about the way it records. Catches it better.”

“Never thought I would hear that,” she answers, following his path across the room to an old television with a large player stacked beneath it. “Catches what better?”

A few hours later she’s calling, e-mailing, and texting Dr. Killian Jones, trying to temper the excitable tone of her voice, “Hey, Dr. Handsome? Yeah, I hope you’re well-rested. I’ve got something you need to see.”

* * *

 Dropping her phone almost directly into the good doctor’s hot coffee probably isn’t the best idea she’s ever had, but it’s certainly one of the more dramatic.

“I hope you know that I won’t be paying for that,” he starts calmly, his eyebrow predictably, adorably _quirked_.

“Don’t quirk that thing at me,” she answers hotly, pulling the phone away at the corner, wiping the liquid off on her jeans, “she’s endured a whole lot worse than your shitty coffee.”

He takes an actual, _delicate_ sip of his hot, expensive, garbage coffee and she thinks, gleefully, of all the articles she’s read about problematic coffee bean importation and the fact that this self-righteous jerkface actually thinks he’s taking the moral high ground right now before she tries to hand the phone over yet again. Slower this time.

“Watch it,” insistently pushing the phone into his hand, “I think you’ll find it... _enlightening_.”

“I can assure you, Swan,” slowly returning his mug to the table, his eyes never leaving hers as he tugs it from her fingers, “it’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”

“Yeah, well, we’ll see about that.”

She probably should’ve warned him, the screaming is pretty loud.

Exorcism footage is undeniably fucked, and she’s starting to regret the re-watch rabbit hole she tumbled down the night before. She hadn’t slept much, and between the violent, erratic spasming and otherworldly shrieking she’s not sure she’ll be sleeping ever again, thank you very much. It is worth it, however, for the shocked, offended look on his face when Alex Reagan, aged 10 or 11, lets out an ungodly shriek so loud that the barista behind the counter drops a bucket full of dirty mugs and dishes. (And, okay, she _does_ feel slightly bad about that.)

“Good God, Swan,” he hisses angrily, desperately trying to mute her phone before it gives the older lady in the corner booth a heart attack, “you could see fit to warn a man.”

“Oops.”

His sigh of frustration is almost erotically gratifying, and she unleashes a smug, self-satisfied grin of her own before he resumes the video, at a much lower volume this time, and a serene sense of concentration seems to envelop him as he watches the entire 10 minute clip.

It had seemed pretty legitimate, in her admittedly amateur opinion. Maybe she hadn’t spent her _whole life_ debunking the paranormal, but she liked to think she had a pretty good instinct for these things. August Booth was a shady character, there was no doubt in her mind of that, but this tape—and the others? They had to be real.

* * *

 Her voice is clear, steady, and entirely unimpeded by snacks as she records. Her foot fails to nervously fidget beneath her desk as it normally would. Her motives are pure and ethically sound.

Take that, David Nolan.

Let me describe it for you, so you can really get a clear sense of what we’re seeing.

_There’s a young girl tied to a chair. She’s unusually small for her age, Booth says she can’t be any older than 10, but it takes at least 3 large, beefy guys to keep her in that chair. There’s a sound coming from the video, and, ya know, her mouth is open, so it has to be the girl, but… it sounds more like the cries of a wounded animal. A cat, maybe. And it echoes, loudly, throughout the room—you can tell that it’s distracting the priest, which… I dunno, maybe that’s the point._

_He’s chanting something in Latin, and it’s having some kind of effect on the girl, Alex, her jaw seems to be clenched so tightly I’m surprised it doesn’t break. This goes on for a while, I won’t bore you with the rest, but it’s the end that’s really… it’s really something else. The priest seems to finish his chant or sermon, whatever it is, and Alex goes real still, like maybe she’s heard something in another room?_

_And then…_

* * *

 “Bloody hell.”

“Told ya.”

* * *

  _...Her mouth just… drops open, but it’s more than that, it’s not like she’s surprised or excited or shouting, it just **drops** , like the physical reality of her **bones** aren’t even a **thing** , because this poor girl’s jaw, it’s down to her sternum, **at least** , and it’s only a second, it’s a literal fraction of a second but when you see it. Man, do you see it. _

* * *

 “Debunk _that_ , Mr. Bean.”

Dr. Jones looks thoroughly unimpressed for a whopping 30 seconds before he speaks.

“Where did you find this, Emma?”

“I may have taken a trip to Storybrooke after our chat the other day.”

The man couldn’t look less amused by that confession even if he tried. His manner seems to shift from inquisitive scientist to scolding parent, and she tries not to feel disappointed.

“You shouldn’t have done that, Swan.”

“Oh, it’s ‘Swan,’ now, is it?”

He slips the phone back into her hand and returns to his seat, his sad, neglected coffee having significantly cooled since she walked in the door. She had been hoping for another explosive debate, if she were being truthful. Not that they’d made much progress the other night at the college, but she enjoyed riling him up—he blushed a lot.

“What is it you want from me?”

She sighs and considers her position. The least she could do is be truthful with her subject. The chair slides harshly across the floor as she moves to take a seat, and the coffee shop seems to fall almost eerily quiet in the absence of the video, the sound of their voices filtering in between the generic noises of a public space.

“I just want the truth, Jones. Like you.”

“Somehow, Miss Swan, I’m not quite sure that’s true.”

There’s something unsettling about the way he studies her, like he knows all of her deepest, darkest secrets, can read her insecurities as if they were second-rate horoscopes in some local paper and she wants to take it all back—she’ll write about the cat toenails. After a few long, uncomfortable minutes in which she feels strangely psychoanalyzed, he manages to expose at least one of her secrets.

“I know you got that tape from August Booth,” taking a sip of his cold coffee and wrinkling his nose, “and I can’t say I approve.”

“Good thing I don’t live or die at the whims of your approval, Dr. Jones.”

“Yes, I would have to agree. Quite a good thing.”

He seems to disappear into himself for another moment, not dissimilar to his reaction when the almost comically serious, dark-haired woman had asked him about Milah Gold that night at the lecture.

“I have a proposition,” he starts again, straightening his jacket, “if you’re going to be as… shall we say, ‘committed,’ to hounding me about this as you appear to be—”

A bearded waiter wearing suspenders (because this coffee shop isn’t trendy enough) stops by their table to retrieve empty mugs and take any other orders, and she would very much like to get some herbal tea (David “pop-pop” Nolan seems to think that caffeine “makes her worse”), except this dude won’t stop flirting with _her_ paranormal professor. Her time is precious, after all.

“Excuse me, yes, hello?”

Killian Jones stops flashing his obnoxious eyeballs at their stunned waiter long enough for her to order her tea and then he’s gone, both of them making eyes at the other until he’s back behind the counter.

“You are a mystery unto yourself, Dr. Jones.”

He clears his throat and tries to hold back another one of those smug grins she still can’t stand, and he gestures towards her phone sitting innocuously on the table, like a bomb waiting to go off.

“I know this all seems like just another story to you, but there’s a lot more to this world than you know.”

“I _do_ know, that’s why—”

He chuckles and gently interrupts, “Just, hold on one moment and let me finish. I’ve listened to a few of your ‘podcasts,’ as you call them. You are clearly very smart, intuitive, I have no doubt you could tell a compelling story.”

Flirty, in-over-his-head waiter returns with her tea, and luckily, doesn’t stick around for another game of mental footsie.

“If you’re going to tell this story, as I have no doubt you will, I want to make sure that it’s the _truth_.”

She raises an eyebrow, as if listening to a few of her episodes means he _knows_ her. Nothing is more important than the integrity of her work. Nothing. Cat toenails or no, she’s not a liar.

“I’m not great at a whole lot, Dr. Jones. But I’m a brilliant reporter. I’m thorough and careful and creative and I do my job. I don’t need you or anybody else reminding me of what the truth is.”

 _Stand up_ , she thinks to herself, _leave._ _You don’t know need him to tell this story, it’s practically writing itself at this point._ In her recollections of this moment, lost in the digital confines of her recorder, looking out over the bay in her VW, the sun setting magnificently in the distance, she will lie. Just a little bit.

* * *

  _“So he tells me he thinks we’d make a good team, basically, only the language was a bit more formal.”_

_As if she were some kinda middle-class British lady in a Jane Austen novel and he’s gonna be her Mr. Darcy or a Knightley or whomever the hell decides to play the gentleman in the story of her life. Makes her realize that he wasn’t who she thought he was or some bullshit, and “No,” aloud, recording, “he’s exactly who I think he is.”_

_“Anyway,” taking a breath, re-focusing, onto the next step, “he’s taking me out of state tomorrow.” Some kind of haunting in Canada and dammit, she’s gonna need to dig her passport out of her closet._

_“This is Emma Swan, ACRS, signing off.”_


	2. 002.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be a one-shot. Then there were two chapters. Now there's three. I hate myself, but I hope you like this chapter.

And that’s how it starts. To David’s immense happiness, the podcast becomes incredibly popular in just the first few episodes. They manage to get some spooky, soft folk music for the opening theme music, a couple of advertisers, and soon enough, she’s no longer doing a series on “odd jobs.” Instead, it’s a full-blown podcast about debunking claims of paranormal phenomena. And getting the infamous Dr. Killian Jones to admit he was wrong. Maybe. A little bit.

Episode 1 is a blend of the first night they met; a mixture of her drunken ramblings the night after the lecture, their meeting at the coffee house (screeching possession recording included, it’s what earns them the “explicit” rating), her street interviews and the meeting with August Booth. It ends with Killian’s earnest proposition of partnership, his genuine desire to make sure people know the Truth about the so-called paranormal. Apparently people like that sort of thing.

* * *

⭐️ ⭐️ ⭐️ ⭐️ ⭐️  — _“This is one of the most intriguing podcasts I’ve ever heard. Emma Swan and the gang at ACRS have done it again!”_

⭐️ ⭐️ ⭐️ ⭐️ ⭐️  — _“I just want everyone to know, I’ve seen Dr. Jones in person, and he’s just as hot as Emma tries to pretend he isn’t.”_

⭐️  — _“Killian Jones is an insult to the profession. I’m dismayed that ACRS would give this man such a public outlet to spread his lies.”_

* * *

 Over the next few months Emma Swan’s admittedly small world gets a hell of a lot bigger and marginally scarier than it was before they met. There's a few more possessions, some demon sightings, that sort of thing. It’s fairly episodic until around Episode 5 or so, when things start to get a bit out of hand.

Funnily enough, she does end up learning that Killian Jones is an actual professor at a college in Nova Scotia, and she starts spending more and more time in his office up North. The air seems cleaner up there, and there’s something nice about all that open space.

“Well, I call it an office,” she says in Episode 3, “The Unsound,” “but it's more like an apartment.”

“Do you sleep here?” she asks in the comforting quiet of one late afternoon, jagged edges of light falling across a carpet covered in books and half-empty, dirty mugs of cold coffee.

“I've been known to,” he admits reluctantly, toying with the reddened tip of his ear, “work gets the best of me sometimes.”

She makes a comment in that episode about what it might say about him, that he's sleeping in his office, and they have a huge fight (recorded, of course) about privacy and professionalism, and what's okay for her to reveal about him on air.

“I didn't agree to this so you could censor my content,” she says harshly, nostrils flaring, “that wasn't the deal.”

“As I recall, there was no ‘deal,’ _darling_ , there's nothing demanding I stay.”

When she listens to the episode later, there's something about her initial hesitancy to respond that makes her want to cry. It’s an unfamiliar silence on her part that she doesn’t quite know what to do with. David sits with her in his too-quiet office and tries to pretend she's not blinking back furious tears.

“It'll be fine,” she says, quietly, “he’ll be back.”

She does Episode 4 alone. Which, as it turns out, will be somewhat of a minor mistake. Kind of? With the benefit of hindsight, it’s hard to really regret the final outcome(s) of all this unexpected sleuthing and professor-kidnapping.

 _“It’s not a kidnapping if I agree to it, Swan.”_  

_“Whatever you say, Jones.”_

He comes back in Episode 5 with a characteristically dramatic apology that people can’t seem to stop tweeting her about. Not that she's sure why, people apologize all the fucking time.

* * *

 

* * *

“You really don't see why your listeners might... _respond_ to something like that?”

“No, and I'm starting to regret agreeing to this lunch.”

Mary Margaret smiles and kisses baby Leo on the cheek, “Alright, Emma, whatever you need.”

* * *

_Steady, determined footsteps are followed by the turning of a door handle. Sheets of paper blow softly on top of her desk. The sound of traffic, a shout, and then harsh laughter._

" _I_ _brought you tea.”_

  _A clock ticks in the midst of a silent morning, and David’s office door closes down the hall. There’s the sound of a chair sliding across a tiled floor, soft leather and creaking wood. David will have to consider whether or not he should include music in post, but the tension-induced silence is just too good. Somehow, the sound of their breathing, the movement of furniture, it’s as if a new character’s been introduced into the narrative._

_"You remind me of her you know. Milah.”_

  _Emma takes a deep breath, which, normally, the recorder might not pick up, but it's so brief and sharp it manages to disrupt the echo-chamber quality of an office too empty for a half-decent sound byte._

 _"Y_ _ou're very different, clearly. Not sure I've ever known a woman like you before.” He clears his throat, and there’s a brief pause. “Point is, Swan. Emma. Milah, she trusted me. I let her down.”_

  _His voice cracks, and they’ll consider an attempt at smoothing it out later, but it's hard to fuss without strangling his words, and anyway, maybe she kind of likes it a little bit. The throaty evidence of his vulnerability. A humbleness she hasn’t really gotten a chance to see yet. And there’s something more powerful about it when she can’t even see his face later—how true (capital “T”) it feels without the distraction of his gaze._

_"There are no monsters, Emma. No ghosts. I know it would be easier, if humans weren't capable of such terrible things. Sometimes they wear such… disguises, we can't recognize them. But if you just… scratch the surface, they look just like you or I.”_

_Emma gulps down some of the tea he had so_ **_thoughtfully_ ** _brought, “Why are you here?”_

 _“Milah… died because of me. I don't… I_ **_can't_ ** _be responsible for another woman meeting the same fate. Especially not you.”_

_“You don't get to decide that.”_

_He chuckles, warm and earnest, and his follower count on Twitter spikes._

_“I know, Emma, I know, I just—I was afraid. And I'm sorry. I won't leave you again. I promise.”_

_The sound of a paper cup tipping over onto wood makes a soft, wet sound. Kind of like waves lapping against a docked ship. It’s hard to know what it is from audio alone, and even in post, David will have to rewind it multiple times trying to figure out what actually happened during those few seconds, but the recording ends before he can be sure. Mary Margaret listens too, only she smirks and tells him to ignore it._

_Emma’s follower count spikes too._

* * *

It’s around when she’s posted the fifth or sixth episode that the weirder comments start rolling in. And not the paranormal, paranoid kind of weird that she started to receive mere hours after the first episode was posted. I mean, _fuck_ , she basically welcomes those e-mails and messages now—instead she’s got these… these…

“Shippers?”

“Excuse me?”

Mary Margaret is busy swaddling Leo as she soldiers on, blissful and unbothered, “I believe they’re called ‘shippers,’ many of my students seem to be under the impression that you’re _destined_ to fall in love with that man.”

Emma sputters and desperately tries to ignore the note of absolute _whimsy_ in her tone.

“Fuck off.”

David’s voice sounds from the kitchen with a scandalized, “Emma!”

“I’m sorry! It was an accident,” mumbling, “sort of.”

“Some of them think you already _are_.”

“‘Already ‘ _are_ ,’ what?”

Mary Margaret hits her with the classic, “Are you kidding me right now?” look, and Emma has to actively stop herself from stepping on Mary Margaret’s dainty, dainty toes. She hates that look. It makes her feel like she’s become trapped inside of some terrible, syndicated sitcom from the 90s.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

* * *

“Before we begin this week’s episode,” she starts calmly, “I’d like to clear up a few things. And, okay, not a few things, one  _major_ thing. I know this is going to crush all of your little hearts…”

It’s at that very moment that her phone decides to vibrate. “Mr. Bean Believes in Ghosts” is calling, because the man has  _impeccable_ timing, and she shuts her eyes before taking a breath and continuing, “But I would just like all of my listeners to know that there is absolutely  _nothing_ going on between myself and—”

A loud, aggressive knock sounds from the door to the studio, and when she looks back through the glass she sees him. Dr. Killian Jones in all his leather jacket wearing glory, his hair almost alarmingly disheveled, eyes wide and blue and _fuck_.

“SWAN!”

She gestures meaningfully to her headphones and the mic, hoping he’ll take the freaking hint and go the hell away already, but all he does is knock louder, his face getting redder with every second that passes.

“Open the door, Swan. Right now.”

His words are a bit muffled, but she knows the stern doctor voice when she hears it. She throws the headphones off and marches towards the door, their eyes meeting angrily through the glass.

“What the _fuck_ , Jones?”

“Nice mouth, Emma, per usual.”

He smirks as he moves past her, but she can tell by the stiff set of his shoulders that he’s feeling anything but his usual flirtatiousness. She watches carefully as he runs his fingers roughly through his hair, tugging what must be painfully on the thick strands. The wide, almost twitching movement of his eyes, the rumpled quality of his clothing beneath his jacket.

“Killian?”

There’s a note of worry in her voice, and upon hearing it later she’ll be overcome with the urge to drop her own red, hot face into her clammy hands and wonder what the hell has come over her.

“I’m not quite certain what I should be angrier about.”

It’s quiet except for the rustling of their clothing as well as their nervous, frustrated sighing, and it’ll be a highlight of Episode 6. He takes her non-answer as a question and continues, “You went to go see him without me. I told you—”

“And I told _you_ , you don't get to tell me how to produce _my_ show.”

“Even at the expense of your life?”

It would appear that _someone_ has actually been listening to the podcast for once in his own miserable, uptight life. She’s standing there, on the one hand, trying not to wonder why he’s so concerned, and on the other, trying not to be insulted at the fact that he had waited so long to actually listen to the podcast.

“Don’t tell me you only just got around to listening to that episode, Jones. It’s been weeks.”

It’s odd. He’s not a traditionally large man. David is practically a linebacker in comparison, but when he’s standing toe-to-toe with her, she notices that he’s actually a good foot taller than her. And she’s known it from the start, but there’s always been something about him, hasn’t there? A presence or sense of self that really gives him the ability to fill a space. Her own private, very well-protected space included.

“Not really the point, Swan.”

It’s at this point in the episode that you hear the brief scuffling of footsteps against the floor (his worn Chucks no doubt, not that the listeners really need to know the details), and her aggrieved, “Hey!” followed by the closing of the studio door. Unfortunately for her rabid fan-base, not much to be heard after that.

* * *

_“You wanna tell me about what happened in there?”_

_David’s been in full-fledged dad mode since he called her into his office that morning, replaying the episode he had been in the middle of editing, glancing at her throughout like he was waiting for the obvious explanation._

_“Nothing, it’s the usual bullshit.”_

_“You don’t need to pretend with me, Emma.”_

_“Who’s pretending?”_

_David sighs and she has to put on the reassuring Emma act, smiling and rolling her eyes, “Everything is fine, okay?”_

* * *

When the episode picks back up it’s kind of like the whole thing has never happened (thanks, David), and personally, she’s fine with it. Until, that is, the inevitable shaming and note of rightness in his tone.

“I think now would be the time for the truth, Emma, don’t you agree?”

He drops a small, woven sack onto the table between the two of them. It’s cinched closed at the top, with some brown, painted symbols on the burlap fabric. They were red when she’d seen it a few days earlier, so, she’s pretty sure it’s blood. Probably from an animal or something.

“It’s not a big deal, it’s just some fan with too much time on their hands.”

“This was left on your doorstep, Emma.”

“Yes, I’m aware.”

* * *

* * *

He opens the bag, dumping the contents onto the table and she tries not to look as guilty as she feels. Not that she really has anything to feel guilty about in the first damn place. A handful of small animal bones scatter across the surface, recently cleaned by the look of their slight pinkish hue.

“This is what he does,” his words following quickly one after the other, voice laced with anxiety, “this is why I told you _not to see him without me_.”

“Well… _you weren’t around_ ,” his brow furrows at the accusation, which she carefully ignores, “I still had a story to write.”

“You can no longer afford to pretend this is a game, Emma.”

“Do you really think I’m that naïve?”

The exaggerated roll of his eyes is condescending in a new, infuriating way she hasn’t yet had the pleasure of experiencing and she very nearly slaps him. The frustration that she feels is unfamiliar, it’s not charming or challenging, it’s _actual_ anger. Somewhere in the back of her mind she can hear her own voice blaring through the speaker, _“Killian Jones is a real dick.”_

“Not at all, but I _do_ think you’re that stubborn.”

“Aside from the guy being a tad on the creepy side,” and ya know, wall-to-wall taxidermy isn’t really _everyone’s_ thing, “nothing remotely threatening happened that day. You need to relax.” 

* * *

_Episode 4, “Mr. Gold’s Pawn Shop,” is one of their highest rated episodes, aside from the apology episode and the finale. It’s also the only episode without Killian Jones. In fact, Emma barely mentions him, which doesn’t go unnoticed by her freakishly vigilant audience._

_“I’m heading back into Storybrooke today,” her car rumbling obnoxiously in the background, “August Booth put me in touch with Mr. Gold. Yeah,_ **_that_ ** _Mr. Gold.”_

_The shop is decidedly less charming than August Booth’s cozy, chaotic office. It’s full of shit to be sure, but it’s all so clearly organized you can’t help but feel that the entire room is holding some kind of grudge against you just for being there._

_“The walls are_ **_covered_ ** _in taxidermy animals, some of them very clearly sewn together in, shall we say, ‘unnatural,’ ways.”_

_It’s empty and hazy, like there’s a permanent cloud or a fog pervading the place. It’s quiet except for the sound of the bell over the door, and they play it up in the final recording, the heavy silence followed by the chiming bell._

_“Hello? Mr. Gold?”_

_She explores the shop carefully and deliberately, all the while thinking about what Killian has said about the man._

* * *

“That’s disgusting,” she chokes out, licking her lips, trying to catch the distracting taste of her own lip balm, “why the hell do you drink that stuff?”

“Because it’s what adults drink, darling,” he replied laughingly, “not my fault you can’t handle yourself.”

“I can handle myself just fine, thank you very much—”

It had been an evening that was quickly becoming routine for the two of them; a few drinks in the professor’s Nova Scotia office, trying not to notice how _lived in_ it seemed. Ignoring the rumpled blankets and piles of dirty clothes everywhere.

“And don’t think you’re gonna distract me by questioning my ability to drink alcohol,” she continued, determined, “you promised.”

Killian Jones had yet to fulfill his earlier promises to Emma Swan vis-à-vis Milah Gold’s villainous husband—nor had he elaborated on the specifics as to her whereabouts. Facts which she _and_ her listeners were feeling particularly impatient about. She could only fend off the clamoring masses for so long.

Once again, she felt herself briefly regret asking the question. He had been so light a second or so earlier, dare she say “happy.” Now, prepping his careful response to her prying questions, she could see the heaviness returning. The sips he was taking from his flask appeared less casual, instead they were almost desperate, the pulls of rum somehow tired.

“As you wish, Swan. I did promise.”

Emma recalls his tale for the final recording as if it were a news report. It would have been easy to play Killian’s own re-telling, but there was something about his voice when he’d been explaining everything. Something a bit lost and sad, and while the later note about his sleeping arrangements would stir up the whole fight and subsequent apology drama, she couldn’t bring herself to betray that voice. Her listeners didn’t need to hear _everything_.

“The basic facts of the case are this,” she records later, trying to forget about the melancholy look on his face, “Dr. Killian Jones got a bit fresh with a married woman and her husband didn’t handle it very well.”

There’s a police report in a filing cabinet somewhere in Storybrooke stating that Dr. Killian Jones had filed a missing person's report for Milah Gold. There’s a media archive full of local news stories about a missing woman and an affair and two men with ample motive and shaky alibis. There’s a professor with an unusual, arguably useless doctorate and a somewhat tumultuous past, an aggrieved husband and businessman who seems to have had both hands in multiple pies.

“Dr. Jones has always had an obsession with the truth. Especially after the death of his brother,” another fact that she would learn during one of their many late night meetings in his office, “which was, admittedly, shady as hell.”

Similarly, Robert Gold seems to have always had a reputation for the unusual, dating all the way back to his arrival in Storybrooke (and he seems to have been there forever). According to the townsfolk, he had always just had an odd kind of… way about him?

“Always felt like he was trying to catch you out,” explained a local fisherman, trying to put his finger on the so-called strangeness, “he pretended he was interested, like he wanted to help? But you tell him just a little too much and, ya know…”

Shaking his head and trailing off, like that explained everything. It fucking didn’t.

* * *

_Given the decor, it’s not surprising, but still, the overwhelming smell of dead animals is somewhat jarring. I mean, they look like they’ve been dead and stuffed for years, but there’s still a freshness on the air that makes her feel a bit sick. And maybe like she should have taken Killian’s advice. Not that it matters, he made his decision._

_She’s pulling a book off the shelf when he sneaks up behind her, not even with a betrayal of step or breath._

_“Jesus!” she exclaims loudly, holding a hand against her pounding heart._

_“Afraid not,” he says softly with a smirk, looking her up and down in a way that doesn’t help with the aforementioned nausea, “is there something I can help you with?”_

_She had gone into this with the intention of keeping her profession a secret. People had a tendency to put on a show if they thought they were being recorded, and given what Killian had to say about him, it seemed most prudent to keep the recorder hidden._

_“I was just looking,” she answers happily, trying to adopt the standard happy-go-lucky attitude that everyone in Storybrooke seemed to have, “I’m visiting from out of town.”_

_“Well, I hope you’ve enjoyed our little corner of the world thus far, Miss…?”_

_“Swan,” she answers quickly, nervously (which is, to be frank, unusual for her), “and yes, it’s been very nice. Everyone here is very welcoming.”_

* * *

“I cannot believe you would give that… _man_ your name.”

She has to admit, even with the seething anger at his earlier interruption and condescension (totally negating the concern, by the way), he has a point. She wasn’t really sure why she had given him her name either.

“It’s not a big—”

“Excuse me, Emma, but as the supposed expert on these things, I will have to insist that, yes, it is a very ‘big deal,’ as you put it.”

In their almost frighteningly large corner of this particular universe, this strange new world that she seems to have created between the two of them, names are, apparently, very important. They hold a power that the so-called “normal” world has yet to really grasp.

“You may as well have painted a large target on your back.” 

* * *

_Coming right out and asking about Milah Gold and Dr. Killian Jones in the same breath probably wasn’t one of her brighter ideas either, but really, it was like her mouth couldn’t stop moving once Mr. Creepy was standing right in front of her. Also, like…?_

_“I’m a journalist.”_

_“Is that so?”_

_“Atlantic Coast Radio Stories. We produce podcasts.”_

_“I’m sorry?”_

* * *

“Glad to know I’m not the only one thrown off by the term, I suppose.”

“Can it, Grandpa.”

* * *

_"It’s radio. Anyway, did you have anything to do with the disappearance of your wife?”_

_It was at this point in their little impromptu interview that she started to feel mildly dizzy. And a bit out of breath? Like she couldn’t get the words out fast enough, and okay, it was… disconcerting, but ya know, people get nervous sometimes. Even Emma Swan._

_“It’s all old news at this point, I’m afraid,” he answered calmly, as if he were speaking from a script, “she simply disappeared one night. The police suspected her lover, of course, but unfortunately had no evidence to convict.”_

_“Dr. Killian Jones.”_

_“Yes, that’s correct.”_

_There’s a rumbling on the recording, like thunder, followed by a pitter patter of rain on the roof of the Bug after she whips her phone out of her pocket and tries to figure out what could have possibly gotten into her just then._

_“I’m pretty sure I gave that guy everything except my address,” she admits in an almost-whisper, her voice abnormally soft to her own ears, “I think.”_

* * *

“You mean you don’t remember?”

The anger he had expressed earlier would have been preferable to the careful gentleness he seemed to offer her now. The theatricality of before seems to have dissipated, so she feels like she has no other choice but to take his concern seriously. It’s hard to brush it off when he’s stopped flouncing about the room like some kind of testosterone-fueled ballerina.

“I talk to a lot of people,” she tries to explain, “it’s normal to lose some of the details.”

“This is important Emma. Do you not remember how you made it back to your car?”

It’s when she notices the weight of his hands on her shoulders that she feels the tightness in her chest. And the sound of her breath in her own ears, loud and muffled all at the same time, like she’s underwater. Her heart is beating uncomfortably fast—

“Is it supposed to beat that fast?”

His voice cuts through the panic like a knife, and it won’t end up on the recording, David is a bit too protective of her for that, but Killian’s answer would have, probably, ignited a social media shitstorm that neither of their college interns would have been well-equipped to handle.

“Emma, look at me,” his words slow and deliberate, “breathe, everything’s alright. You’re safe.”

“But I can’t,” looking into a pair of eyes she had spent the last few months trying her damndest to avoid at all costs, “I can’t remember.”

And of course, because her life hasn’t gotten weird enough, that’s when the phone decides to ring.

* * *

_“Don’t answer it,” he says, immediately, the warning in his tone unmistakable. Again, it’s more than a simple case of dramatic flair. His genuine fear is a tad alarming, but it’s not like she’s about to ignore an unknown caller in the middle of all this conspiratorial, whacked out bullshit._

_“I have to,” she answers, breathless, her finger sliding across to accept the call, “it could be important.”_

_She puts it on speaker, it’s the very least she can do, and tries to school her voice with a predictable, “Hello?”_

_It’s quiet for so long she has to repeat herself, and that’s when their mysterious caller decides to respond. It’s about as creepy as you might expect, the sound of someone breathing over the phone being just about one of the most unsettling things you might experience in your life. Emma would certainly prefer that if people must breathe into the phone, that they also speak or chew gum—literally anything._

_“Who is this?”_

_More of the same harsh, spine-tingling breath, and then, “Killian?”_

_In retrospect, Milah’s voice is softer than she had expected—or harsher. What does a (supposedly) dead woman’s voice even sound like? Scratchier probably, full of dirt and rocks and whatever else you get buried with. Certainly not this smooth, lilting thing that sounded suspiciously like a babbling brook. Maybe she hadn’t died after all. Maybe… maybe she had just run away. She’s not sure which of those would be worse. For Killian, that is._

_Speaking of, the man looks like his heart’s dropped into his stomach. Nary has such a look of shock crossed a man’s face, and the Emma of several months ago probably would have leapt for joy at such a sight. The Emma of right now just slides the phone across the table and nudges his shoulder with a tightly clenched fist._

_“_ **_Killian_** _,” she hisses, “answer her.”_

_He looks to Emma as if she might be able to tell him what to say, but all she’s got is an equally befuddled glance, a widening of her eyes and another hit to the body._

_“Milah,” Killian begins, in a voice so timid it almost doesn’t sound like him. Hell, if she hadn’t been standing right next to him, she might have thought it was a perfect stranger. “How are you even…?”_

_The question trails off and all that’s left is Milah’s terrible breathing, Killian’s own shaky sigh, and the tips of Emma’s gnawed up fingernails tapping against the table. He curls his own hand around her restless fingers. Whether it’s to stop the noise or comfort her, or himself, it’s hard to tell what with that stunned and stupid look on his face._

_“That’s not important,” Milah finally answers, the sound cutting in and out over her words, “I have a message for you.”_

_“What message?” he asks carefully, squeezing Emma’s fingers with his sweaty hand._

_“He wants me to tell you—”_

_The call cuts out for a few incredibly torturous moments of static-heavy silence when she finally continues, “He wants me to tell you to stop looking.”_

_The look on Killian’s face is no longer fear or awe—it’s anger. And not the anger of earlier, an anger born of concern or even, dare she say it, friendship, it’s a pure righteous fury and she’s grateful when he relinquishes the ever-tightening grip on her hand._

_“I will_ **_not_** _—”_

 _“Stop looking,” the ghostly voice of Killian’s apparently-not-dead ex-wife interrupts, “or_ **_she’ll_ ** _disappear too.”_

_The call ends with a foreboding click, and Emma’s fingers resume their maddening tap-tap-tap against the table. She dares a peek at Killian’s face, which has gone from shock, to sadness, to anger, to some muddling middle where he’s staring at her with some odd combination of all three._

_“So,” she begins, breaking the silence, “that was… interesting.”_

_She’s even_ **_less_ ** _certain of how to describe the look he gives her then._

* * *

The really irritating thing is that she doesn’t even spill the beans on air, it’s just her fucking scattered, non-plussed Internet persona that bites her in the ass.

“You never did take it very seriously.”

“Yeah, great, thanks, Mary Margaret.”

* * *

* * *

“Do these people not have lives? Families? Jobs?”

It’s a low-res photo, full of Killian’s crap, so it’s absolutely astonishing to her that some of these people were even able to make it out. It looks like it could be anyone’s office—hell, it could be her office. She’s notoriously messy, and she appreciates a good view. I mean, sure, it smells like aged, expensive rum and heady cologne that Dean Martin probably wears, but it’s not like her followers would be able to know that. There’s nothing inherently Dr. Killian Jones™ about the thing. Unless you knew him. Maybe.

“Apparently, there’s a photo of his brother on the bookshelf.”

“How can they even _see_ that?”

“I don’t know,” David answers, distracted with an e-mail, “Photoshop and sheer force of will.”

It had taken some convincing, but after a few more hex bags and the dead cat on her doorstep, she had conceded to his somewhat inane request that she stay with him for the time being. For her safety. And so, of course, her annoyingly observant fans stare way too long and way too hard at a dumb Instagram photo, and figure out that Emma Swan’s been _temporarily_ sharing living quarters with Dr. Killian Jones. She turns off her notifications.


	3. 003.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's done you guys. It's really done. I am an entire human tear dripping down the face of improbability. I hope it was worth the wait.

Early on in her career at ACRS, before she had even begun to trust David and his suspiciously kind wife, she had quickly developed the habit of recording everything. She found it comforting and helpful, as if she were writing in a journal or diary, only something about speaking felt easier. When she wrote things down, it took significantly more time. To consider each and every word before it hits the paper, as if putting the words down in ink somehow made the ideas permanent. Speaking felt a little bit less so, there was less of a censor in her own head. For whatever reason.

“Never really kicked the habit, I guess,” she says, speaking quietly from a too-soft bed in Killian Jones’ guest room. It’s early in the morning, around 3 AM, and she feels like she hasn’t slept in a week at least.

“A few hours here and there,” a half-spoken whisper, “but I just haven’t been able to stay asleep. I keep having these… dreams.”

* * *

_The studio in Maine is empty. The headphones are on, the red light shines bright, bright, bright—so bright, she can feel a dull pain somewhere behind her eyes when she looks at it. It’s recording, and she begins to speak, only no words emerge from between her lips, no sound. She shouts, yells and screams, clutching at her own throat, wondering where her voice has gone—panicked that no one can hear her cries for help._

_That’s when she hears it. The heavy, dragging footsteps from down the hall, accompanied by a slow, wet squish. The air smells… tangy, like iron. Like salt on your lips after a day at the beach, only it feels like she’s lived in this building her entire life. If someone were to ask her in that precise moment, “What does the beach look like?” she probably wouldn’t be able to answer._

_He’s walking down the hall, calling her name, only… it’s more like gasping her name. Limping down the long, endless hallway, barely getting out the “Em—” and she’s shouting his name, trying to tell him that yes, she’s here, she’s_ **_right here_** _, only her voice is just… gone. And he doesn’t turn to look at her, just moves on, ever forward, sluggish and slow._

_Standing up, she always stands up, running after him, only he disappears behind a door that suddenly appears at the end of the hall. Sprinting down the long hallway that only seems to grow longer, and finally, finally arriving at the door, wrapping her hand around the hard, cool doorknob and stepping out into… trees._

_Tall, dark, imposing trees, so thick with leaves that she can’t know whether it’s day or night. A silent forest but for the low, steady hum of choral music somewhere in the distance, growing louder the closer she gets to the large, towering inferno of blazing light. As she observes the gathering of cloaked figures, listens to their unsettling, cacophonous song, she sees him. Wearing the same outfit he had donned at the lecture, the charming professor, only it looks like he’s been put through the ringer—his jacket torn, face bloodied, on his knees at the feet of a tall man dressed all in black._

_Still asking for her, begging for them to tell him_ **_where she is_** _, and she shouts again only nothing comes out, her voice is still missing, which is when, of course, she notices the long, cruel blade in the tall man’s hand. And it’s only after he’s raised the blade high into the air, after her knees hit the dirt too late, her hands sticky with his blood, it’s only then that she wakes up._

* * *

“Hush now,” she hears, as if the words are being sung into her ear like a lullaby, a warm hand brushing the damp hair away from her forehead, “everything’s fine, love, you’re okay. It’s okay.”

When his voice, his words and reassurances, finally settle somewhere in the pit of her writhing insides, she can hear the insects chirping outside the half-open window. A truck barrels down the highway up the hill, and the normal sounds of a normal dawn disrupt the terror of her nightmare. The feeling of his chest as it moves behind her; in and out, in and out. His lips are resting somewhere against her gross, sweaty hairline, but she can’t quite muster up the energy to care.

“Do you want to tell me what that was about?”

Shaking her head no, like a child afraid to speak in case she’s still trapped inside her nightmare, silenced by some unknown adversary. And who is she if she’s stopped from speaking? _No one. Useless. Old news._ Certainly, a smart, successful professor from a prestigious university—why would he care without that?

“Have you been sleeping, Swan?”

She shakes her head again and tries to ignore that feeling—the same one she had tried to ignore after he had threatened to leave the first time and she had said nothing. A dull, vicious pressure that exists only to remind her that she’s started to _care_ , that maybe she wants someone to stay. That maybe _she wants to stay_.

He exhales with an, “Oh, Emma,” which is when she realizes that she’s begun to cry, which would explain the lightness in her head and her heart, like there’d been a brick tied to her feet and she’d been drowning only she hadn’t even noticed until now.

It’s not as if the feeling of his hands against her face is a completely foreign sensation. She had, unfortunately, felt and known their roughness before. Had felt his thumb wipe a streak of wayward ink from her cheek, the lined palms of his hand cupping her jaw. And usually, in the past, she had locked it away somewhere, locked it away with the rest of her subjects; her projects, her stories, only now, in the post-drowning light of morning, she holds his rough hands to her heated face like a lifeline.

“I’m sorry,” she gasps, relieved at the sound of her own voice. “I should’ve listened to you.”

“No,” he answers, sternly, adamantly, “you have nothing to apologize for. He is a cruel, manipulative man who will stop at nothing to hide the truth of what he’s done.”

Her teeth sink into the flesh of her bottom lip a little too hard, but it’s just… somehow, astonishingly, there are words that Emma Swan does not know how to say. She talks for a living, so it’s odd to think that she hasn’t spoken them before, but when the words pass her lips, it feels kind of like a step has been made in the right direction. A giant, terrifying step.

“I’m afraid.”

Her hands fall heavy into her lap, and she feels the exhaustion from the night before return in a wave. “I don’t want to go back to sleep,” she whispers, “but I’m so fucking tired.”

“Emma,” he says again, wiping the remaining wetness away from her cheeks and chin, “look at me.”

“No.”

“Emma.”

It’s something a bit like being a disgruntled teenager when she finally gathers the courage to look up at him, only she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t a slightly awed by what she saw. This gentle twinkle in his eyes, like he had some sort of secret, like she didn’t just let loose her feelings all over the place like the emotional time bomb she had always known she _was_. How fucking embarrassing.

“Wipe that crazy grin off your face, Jones. You’re freaking me out.”

He laughs and she can see the sun start to rise behind his head. The wind blows gently through the room, cooling her flushed face, and she can smell the fresh, piney scent that comes with being surrounded by miles of lush forest. It’s like a balm for her frazzled nerves, and she finds it harder to keep her eyes open.

“I was just thinking,” he says softly, re-adjusting the blankets over the two of them, “about that time in the coffee shop. Do you remember?”

She can feel herself starting to drift off, but with the warmth of the sun on her face, the feeling of his arms around her, it’s harder to be frightened.

“You mean when you flirted with that poor, innocent lumberjack-barista?”

“Other than that.”

He pauses for so long she thinks he’s fallen asleep as well, only she can hear his voice again, in the final few moments before she manages to fall into blissful unconsciousness, “You said you were a ‘brilliant reporter.’ Put me in my place for being such an arrogant prick.”

She manages to snort, before he continues, “You shouldn’t be afraid, Swan. He should be.”

* * *

_She’s standing in a library. At least, she thinks it’s a library—there are books on all of the shelves, although many of them are blank, and she can’t seem to find the exit. There are windows on either side of her, but all she can see is grey. Whether it’s fog or sky or what have you, she can’t really tell, it’s just a muted, monochromatic unknown._

_It’s silent but for the sound of her shoes against the hardwood floors, the leather bound books sliding against one another as she tries to make heads or tails of the content. All of them blank._

_The bookshelves are tall, so tall, in fact, that she can’t seem to find the tops of them. They seem to ascend forever, into infinity, and that’s about when Emma suspects she might be dreaming. Surprisingly there’s no real urge to panic, just a sense that she needs to keep walking, as if there was anything else to do. A library full of blank books seems to be about the most useless place her mind can conjure._

_She starts to wonder if she’s been walking forever (and curious as to whether or not anyone has tried to find her) when she finally spots her. The brunette a few feet away, tall and lovely, her hair voluminous and wavy, it outshines the drabness of the room. The floors are a lackluster shade of brown, the glossiness of the wood fading; the windows warped and grey, the books all manner of muted colors, and while the woman’s hair is indeed its own shade of brown, there’s something vibrant about it, isn’t there? Like melted chocolate on the stove, winking in the warm light of an early morning. Her lips are a soft, rosy pink, pursed as they are as she peruses a rather heavy tome._

_“How are you reading that?” Emma asks, perplexed. It seemed to her as if all of these books were frustratingly empty only moments before._

_“How does one read anything?” the unnamed woman sighs, her eyes skimming blank pages as if they were following words from left to right._

_“Cryptic,” Emma answers shortly, one eyebrow raised in annoyance. “What does it say?”_

_“It says you’re in love.”_

_Emma startles at the sound of a book falling somewhere behind her, only she can’t turn around since it feels like there might be something creeping up back there. She only noticed a few seconds ago, but still, not the best feeling in the world, is it? She doesn’t know much, here, in this odd, pointless library where no one can read a thing except for one, vague ghost-person. And what’s so special about her?_

_“With who?” she asks quietly, trying to keep his eyes out of her head, the startling gentleness of his hands against her face._

_Milah, because that’s who she must be, slams the book shut, a cloud of dust escaping from its pages. When she looks at Emma, there’s a strangeness about her flesh, as if it were stretched thin, the color pallid in contrast to her lips and hair._

_“You_ **_are_ ** _a sight, aren’t you?” she wonders aloud, circling Emma like she were a caged animal, an almost-smile on her face. It’s unsettling, like it’s too much work for all the bodily mechanisms to hold in place. “I can see why he likes you.”_

_Emma swallows and her mouth is dry, impossibly, as if she’s been wandering in the desert for days, only she can’t remember where she was before this, or where she might go afterwards. All there is seems to be right now, and she still can’t turn around, cannot think of what to say—which is new for her. Maybe she’s finally growing as a person._

_“Don’t fret, Emma,” Milah says reassuringly, coming to a stop behind her shoulder, like a perched bird, her lips brushing against her hair. “I have a message for you.”_

_There’s an impossibly large book at Emma’s feet; maybe it’s the one Milah had been reading moments earlier, but they all the look the same so it could just as easily not be. This one, thankfully, not blank, but marked with a rather large map of... “Maine?” she asks, whispers, moves an unsteady hand to tuck a lock of thick, blonde hair behind her ear._

_“Milah?” she asks, glancing to her left only to find the woman gone. Nothing left but air and bookshelves, and there’s a shiver down her spine, like the kind you might get from wearing wet clothes inside an air-conditioned room. And there’s still that warning firing somewhere in her brain. Something bad will happen if you turn around. Don’t turn around._

_On a second look it does seem more familiar, the roads and curves and landmarks appearing more and more like Storybrooke, or a couple of miles outside of it. She follows the red road with her eyes, as it moves and moves and moves it seems as if it’s turned into a river, wet and viscous like something she can’t remember. Like wine? Like oil? And it’s suddenly very warm, like there are flames licking along the sides of her face, and the map seems to vanish before her very eyes, lost as it is in all that wet and red, and when she scans the room for Milah once again she sees her._

_A lone figure straight ahead, her eyes unseeing only they’re staring right at her, through her—and when Emma looks down again she can’t see her shoes (if she was even wearing shoes), lost as they are in a deep, thickening puddle of deep, red blood. Which, yes, that’s the word for it. When she looks back up Killian’s deceased lover (apparently) is closer, not so close that she can smell the death on her, but close enough that when she opens her mouth in some kind of wild, untethered shriek, Emma feels herself falling backwards, only there’s no puddle of thick blood to break her fall._

_And that’s when she wakes up._

* * *

Episode 9 opens with the hushed, comforting sounds of two friends talking over coffee. It’s almost eerily relaxed, a different mood than their listeners might have come to expect. You can hear the breeze passing beneath the softness of their voices, catching the cavernous spaces of Killian’s high ceilings. There’s the occasional call of a bird, someone’s chair shifting to accommodate their weight. She loves the sound of the coffee swirling around in the bottom of her mug _—_ adjusting the volume of all that ambient noise with David in the editing bay. “For mood,” she says, laughing at the sight of his indignant face.

“You must have come across it before,” Killian suggests gently, “the mind can work wonders when it's had a proper rest.”

“I’ve never seen it before,” she insists, though any note of anger or frustration one might have expected to hear from her is oddly absent. “Killian,” urging him to understand, “she was showing us where to look.”

* * *

_“I’ve started sleeping again,” she begins in Episode 8, “Turning the Tide,” “and we put new locks on all my doors.”_

_At the beginning of this thing, David had given her a 10-episode run. With two more left, she has, admittedly, started to worry about how they’re supposed to wrap this whole thing up._

_“We’re no closer to figuring out what happened to Milah,” in a recorded meeting with David, “or pinning anything on Mr. Gold for her death.”_

_“Her disappearance,” David corrects, “weird dreams don’t count as evidence.”_

_She sighs and glances at the chaotic map of faces and photographs on the wall in David’s office, trying to make all the pieces fit together. She’s hung up one of those large old road maps, and it dwarfs the rest of their Murder Wall (as she’s begun to so humorously refer to it). And along an infrequently traveled route around Storybrooke, past the town line, closer to the Canadian border, she’s drawn a line in thick, red ink._

* * *

They find Milah Gold in Episode 9, and it’s not some ghostly vision, it’s her actual body. David catches some flack from the production company, mostly because there’s only so much they can play and describe. Not to mention the fact that it becomes an open murder investigation. There’s also the pesky matter of taking Killian Jones’ feelings into consideration. He hasn’t seen Milah for years, but he did love the woman a hell of a lot. Enough to risk his career and his reputation. Hell, her disappearance changed his entire professional trajectory.

“I’d always been the skeptical sort,” he had mentioned to her, late one night after another round of drinks. There was always something about his house. Or maybe it was him. All large, blue eyes and genuine concern. Seriously, the house was nearly as open as he was, surrounded by sweeping green vistas. Wide glass windows always open to let in the air and the smell of the trees. Everything about him was so _available_ , so it was no wonder she had fallen into his arms like a besotted damsel.

_“You’re always welcome, love. You don’t even have to ask.”_

_“You shouldn’t talk like that ya know,” she had answered, hiding her feelings behind a wink and a smirk because she would most definitely cry otherwise, “you might start to give a girl_ **_ideas_ **_.”_

Killian had never cared much for the occult. He had been a fairly straightforward history professor before Milah came along. She had enchanted him almost immediately, headstrong and sharp, they had gotten into a debate about contemporary witchcraft; about legitimacy and belief and all those tricky subjects you might try to otherwise avoid.

“Said she had proof,” he said sadly, taking another sip from his glass, “that it was all just waiting there for someone to notice.”

* * *

_“You don’t have to go in ya know.”_

_“Yes, Swan,” he says, somehow, impossibly understanding. “I do.”_

_She’s the nervous one. The one that doesn’t want to go in; they both know it, but the really magical thing is that he doesn’t say so. He just lets her have her moment of selfish kindness and she kind of hates herself for it._

_The fluorescent lights in the coroner’s office flicker on and off as the heels of their shoes make uppity shopping lady noises against the tiled floor. Emma wrinkles her nose as soon as they pass through a pair of heavy double-doors, the smell of antiseptic and formaldehyde overwhelming nearly all of her senses. Irritating the fine hairs of her nose, tasting it on her tongue. Her eyes even start to water, but that could be the newfound connection with her inner self. Doubtful._

_“I’d never been in a morgue before,” interrupting the episode to speculate, “but it’s kind of exactly what you’d expect. Right down to the wall of tiny doors. Like you’re supposed to knock and ask if there’s anyone home.”_

_The twisting of a handle, the yawning chasm as it opens—her body rolling on a track, like those first few moments on a rollercoaster._

_“I couldn’t really tell Killian this,” nibbling on her lower lip, “but she looked almost exactly the same as she did in my dream.”_

_Only difference being the hair. Not quite so vibrant as she remembered._

_“Cause of death was suffocation,” the coroner drones, remarkably unaware of the emotionally distraught man practically crumbling in front of him. “The mouth was sewn shut. Full of some dark, dense sand. It’s being analyzed in the lab.”_

_Honestly, Emma had assumed the woman had been dead this whole time. Hell, she’s pretty sure that Killian had assumed she’d been dead this whole time. Turns out, it’s only been a couple weeks._

_“Mud preserved the body, that’s why she looks so good.”_

_Killian barks out a laugh and Emma stops recording._

* * *

It ends up being one of their softer episodes, tonally speaking. Opening with coffee and ending with a corpse. There’s little dialogue; it doesn’t feel as if there’s much to talk about, and to be honest, every word or inarticulate groan that had come out of Killian’s mouth in the few hours between searching for the body and actually finding it were a bit too heartbreaking to share with the world in their entirety. Normally so attuned to any recording device she happened to be carrying around with her on any given day, during this particular case, he spoke with an uncharacteristic candor, as if he had forgotten the recording devices were even there. Seemed a bit unfair in her opinion.

_“So humiliating me in the midst of a public lecture is okay?”_

_“Hush, you.”_

“So?” Emma had asked David, her eyes bloodshot, hair a wild nest of stressful finger-combing. She’d come damn near close to cutting most of it off in a sleep deprived rage. “How do we do this?”

They had _so much_ naked audio. There was too much, too many revelations, too many emotions. Hours and hours and hours of close conversation and police sirens and quiet sobs. And what could they air? They still had a story to tell.

_“I won’t publish anything you don’t want me to.”_

_“Bloody hell, Emma. What does it even matter?”_

_“It matters, Killian. Okay? It matters.”_

Lots of clinking silverware, like a spoon against the rim of a mug. Rain against the windows of their car, and mud caught in spinning tires. It’s not completely devoid of dialogue, they ended up using some interview footage with the police, including the awkward as hell press conference where she got blinded by about a million flashing bulbs. What year was this, anyway? Flashing bulbs? Relax.

There’s a shaking anger in his voice when he _does_ speak (or at least, when he speaks and she keeps it in), especially towards the end of the episode. This vengeful, emotionally unstable monologue that they use to devastating, cliffhanger-like effect. It’s why they get a little bit of a backlash after the show ends. Apparently it wasn’t “wrapped up” enough.

“But ya know what, people? This is real fucking life.”

* * *

 

* * *

_Mr. Gold and all his disturbing taxidermy disappear. Into thin air, seemingly. And most of the townsfolk can barely recall whether or not he was there at all. Which is a mindfuck of a whole other sort._

_“Bloody useless,” Killian had muttered through clenched teeth, “she died for nothing.”_

_“Not nothing, Killian,” Emma had tried to gently reassure him, “the world knows you’re innocent. You weren’t responsible for her death.”_

_“I may as well have been.”_

_There’d been a piece of paper tucked into Milah’s pocket, barely legible, but in the end a string of numbers and letters leading to a safety deposit box in the middle of freaking nowhere._

_“And I mean_ **_nowhere_** _,” trapped in her bunk on a long train ride out West, “it’s not like a cactus needs a bank.”_

 _It really does feel like they’ve traveled back in time. Everyone calls Emma “Ma'am” and Killian “Sir” in truly clichéd Southern twangs and often assumes they’re married, which the Twitter followers just_ **_love_** _. To get even more trope-y, there’s another note from Milah in the box, something along the lines of “If you’re reading this I’m dead, and if I’m dead, it was my husband who done it.”_

_Only her husband doesn’t seem to exist anymore, as it turns out._

_“I’ve got his voice recorded,” Emma argues to a detective, Killian standing stoically behind her, staring hard at rows of empty shelves. “He’s a man that exists in the world, okay? I’ve got proof!”_

_The files are corrupted. But she knows what she heard._

_“Robert Gold is real. And you all know it too. Robert Gold is real,” she says again, spittle hitting the microphone, “and he’s a murderer.”_

* * *

Dr. Killian Jones _still_ doesn’t believe in the supernatural. But he thinks the power of suggestion is pretty freaking close. Which, sure, okay, but even he has to admit—

_“The dreams were pretty weird.”_

_“Not necessarily.”_

The last few moments of their final episode are wildly popular, only Emma can’t quite figure out why, given the facts of everything else that goes down in the finale. The note in Milah’s pocket, returning to Gold’s shop with the police only to find it empty, the freaking _cemetery_. Good Lord.

“I know we’re cute and everything, but _this_ is what they get excited over?”

“You are one of the smartest people I know,” Killian says drolly, his smugness dripping over every word, “and yet it _astounds_ me that you could still be so frighteningly obtuse about these things, darling.”

* * *

 _“Thank you,” Emma says, her fingers lingering atop the cold, hard stone. For saving my life. For saving_ **_his_ ** _life. For giving him up. Must’ve been hard._

 _Killian speaks quietly at her side, the sound of a crow cawing in the distance a perfect soundtrack to their brief visit to Milah’s grave. It’s a simple headstone; given the popularity of the podcast, they hadn’t wanted to draw too much attention. But he insists she would’ve liked it. No use in kicking up such a fuss over something so trivial as her_ **_death_** _._

_“All those years,” he says quietly, “I assumed she must have abandoned me.”_

_True story is, of course, she had left to protect him. To keep him out of Gold’s gnarled, wizard fingers. The details are fuzzy, and there’s more bullshit to sift through before this whole thing is over, but she hadn’t left him for want of love. If anything, it had been for too much of it._

_“I know how she feels,” Emma answers a few moments later, her hand slipping into his. “You’re one of those things worth saving.”_

* * *

Those last few titillating moments take place in the midst of a delightfully warm autumn day. Mid-September, so you can still sit outside without wanting to run inside for a parka, and Emma Swan has known Dr. Killian Jones for almost an entire year.

“Feels like a freaking century.”

“You flatter me.”

The leaves rustle and fall around their ears as white, fluffy dandelion seeds hover around their heads and make quick work of landing within the curved shelter of his annoyingly perfect eyelashes. She fleetingly wishes that the technology would evolve enough so that they could feel it—the sun on her legs, the smell of the grass in her nose, that _hint_ of colder weather catching up to them. At the same time, fuck ‘em, this is _her_ finale. Not theirs. In her finale, she gets to keep him.

Although, to be fair, she’s never exactly denied the charge that she’s a prideful person. Which is precisely why she posts the picture.

“You are a charming girl, Miss Swan.”

“I know, Dr. Jones. I know,” she hums and presses a loud, smacking kiss against his jaw, just enough so that it shows up on the recording. Which, she will insist, was an accident.

“This is Emma Swan, ACRS, signing off.” 

* * *

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not promising anything but there might be a Killian POV follow-up to this. No promises, y'all.


End file.
